


Irrelevancies

by Sarcastic_Cupcake



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Heartache, Learning to be Human, Nostalgia, Recovery, Sad, Slice of Life, comfort/hurt, it really do be like that sometimes, writing is my only healthy coping mechanism, yes in that order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcastic_Cupcake/pseuds/Sarcastic_Cupcake
Summary: They say that if your throat feels tight it's because there are things you haven't said, and I've been having a lot of sore throats recently. But...I've always only ever been good at writing, never spoken language, so I suppose this is as close as I will ever get to saying them.





	1. Dilemma

I loved you, _all_ of you, and really I still do. I have a type (freckled; witty; obviously super queer and super cool with it; short, usually colorful hair; piercings optional), I realized recently, and you don't fit it at all but I guess that really just means I won't have to decide if I want to be with you or just _be_ you. But...something is different, now, and I don't know whether this feeling is one of wanting to laugh or to cry. Winter is the season where I can see the years that melt by like ice off a windowpane, winter is a quiet turning inward before the burst of blooming that is spring and summer, winter is the season that makes things Different and this year it is _us_ that has changed. No longer do we pass afternoons finding ways to spend the rest of our lives together, no longer do we daydream about candlelight dinners and teenager-esque adventures complete with funnel cake, no longer do I cite you as my primary reason for living. I... _am_ , I exist as an entity separate from one-half-of-us, and I think now I might be okay at some point if one day it turns out that there _is_ no us. I will spend the money I was allocating towards visiting you on things for myself, things that have no bearing on you whatsoever, and I will be, perhaps, better off for it, better off for deciding what _I_ want instead of what _we_ want. I love you still, I think, but it is winter, and things have been made Different.


	2. Gelatin

Why do I care that when we text you respond at the very most once a day, as though you have some allotted amount of replies and to go over would incur some unspeakable consequence? I don’t know, but I know that I _do_ care, because you make it so _hard_ not to. And so among the stupid useless things I wish for, I wish that I could, at least, make it stop hurting so much. I’ve been wishing that for such a long while, but then again I did mention it was a stupid useless thing, didn’t I? You didn’t notice before _or_ after I jumped from my balcony, and if you didn’t notice that then I don’t know what you would or why it should still possibly matter to me whether or not you did, but it _still_ hurts and I hate the fact that I care so much. I hate the fact that I still _like_ it when we talk, because you reply _just_ often enough that I, against my better judgment, let myself imagine that there’s a way for it to work out. I think there is a part of me that still loves you, that shoots sparks through my chest when I see someone with tousled blond hair and blue eyes and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass who might maybe glance over and break into a soft smile and let us be something, _finally_. I remember the you that I used to know, the you that let there be vulnerability between us, the you that shared with me music and classes and ideas and ideals and  _experiences_ , and that part of me insists that's who you would be if I just gave you enough of myself. But there is a bigger part of me that knows that you hurt and you hurt and you will keep hurting, because, well. Because some things just aren't meant to be, I guess, because I _did_ give you chances, gave and gave and gave until I was more giving than being and _still_ that wasn't enough, somehow, because I have nothing else to say, nothing that will ever be what it needs to be. But oh _, fuck_ , do I wish that it would stop hurting, that my glass-fragile heart might finally mend itself back to an imperfect whole until the next person comes along to cut it to ribbons anew.


	3. ???

We talked about memory today in my psychology class, false memory as a result of trauma, and it made me think of You. Well, maybe not You, entirely, because as soon as that thought conceptualized itself it was imploding, the words I was going to say turned to ash at my fingertips, static filling my head like so many feathers. Oh, I can extrapolate, _infer_ who You might be, but I don't know, and there's nothing more I can say that I haven't already gone over. Except...I remembered something, earlier, and it hints that perhaps I _do_ know who You are, what You may have done, _just how much_  You’ve short-circuited who I should have become.

...I don’t remember having written any of that. Like, at all. And that’s _really fucking disorienting_ , y'know? I assume it’s a defense mechanism, because I’m starting to figure out just how much untruth You told me and I might crumble to ashes if I had to face it all at once.

Like: You are a bad driver. The amount of time You have had to practice driving does not make Your actions okay. There is no circumstance that merits going one hundred and fifteen miles per hour on the highway for any period of time short of a life hanging in the balance. It does not matter whether or not the red light You ran was a stale yellow that turned red when You were halfway through the intersection; the fact remains that it would have been far safer for You to come to a stop and wait your turn. Taking off or putting on Your coat, gloves, hat, headphones, or glasses while the car You are controlling is in motion is inherently unsafe no matter _how_ aware of Your surroundings You are.

Like: You are not, have never been, and will never be the authority on how my mind works. It is not up to You to decide which neurodevelopmental disorders I may or may not have, it is not up to You to conclude what I am or am not smart enough to accomplish, it is not up to You to state with absolute certainty that You can see my own inner workings far better than I will ever be able to. Your blind insistence that whatever problems I “bitch” about are all in my head, all deliberate, all voluntary, has consistently done far more harm than good, and yet You continue to do so as though You think that if You say it enough it might somehow result in something different.

Like: You forget things, and get sick, and get angry. You told me none of those ever happen, and oh _god_ I believed You. I _believed Y_ ou and now it's tearing me apart because most of all? You told me that the roof under which I lived would never hear a lie. I was never to lie to You, and You would respond in kind. But You never kept to that, did You? Either that or You genuinely believe everything You have said is the truth, which is, I think, even worse.

Here are two statements which are not mutually exclusive: “This person is doing their best” and “This person is doing a lot of harm”. Here are two statements which are not mutually exclusive: “I love you” and “I hate you”. Here are two statements which are not mutually exclusive: “Being in your presence repeatedly makes me want to kill myself” and “Oh god, please don't leave me”.


End file.
